


Dead Air

by great_turkey_calamity



Series: RWRB Hunger Games AU [2]
Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Catching Fire AU, Emetophobia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Outbursts, Established Relationship, Graphic Description, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Quarter Quell, Riots, Secret Marriage, Violence, Woo boy this boutta be spicy, depictions of trauma, description of bodily fluids, description of food, domestic moments in dystopia, emotional angst, government rebellion, lying to survive, public proposals, scandals, sequel fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_turkey_calamity/pseuds/great_turkey_calamity
Summary: After being crowned the Victors of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games, Alex and Henry are looking forward to living a life of comfort and privacy together in District Twelve.Or are they?The sequel to Glory and Gore, the Hunger Games AU that nobody asked for.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Series: RWRB Hunger Games AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198772
Comments: 30
Kudos: 21





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel fic let’s get into ittt, god, I love writing for this universe, and I’m so glad that y’all have been enjoying this fic!! These boys are gonna have they’re mockingjay ending, I promise 😤 That being said, please read the tags for any and all content warnings. Thanks for sticking around, and happy reading!!

If a pack of wolves materialized from the depths of the forest, and started running towards Alexander at top speed, the odds of him being able to scale the nearest tree and save his own life would be slim to none. He’s sat on a mossy tree stump just past the electric fence, on the very edge of the woods. He’s shaking due to the cold, and his hands are painful and numb, but he doesn’t mind it this way. He’s found in recent days that, in order to make himself really feel things anymore, he’s got to push his body to the limit, and then some.

With trembling arms, he hoists himself up, grunting as all his joints crackle and pop. There’s no telling how long he sat there, just running through different survival scenarios in his head. That’s been one of his side effects since making it out of the Games; now that all the glitter’s turned to rust, the only thing that he cares about is keeping himself alive.

He double-checks the last of Liam’s traps; nothing. Coming home with nothing more than two rabbits will be a crying shame, but it’s better than nothing at all. Alex doesn’t have to hunt so much anymore, definitely not since he won the Games, but he does it anyways, for Liam and his absolutely helpless family. Liam can’t come to hunt as often as he used to, because he’s started working twelve-hour shifts down in the mines. It’s not quite legal yet— Liam’s got one more year left in the reaping— but it seems that he’s decided that he doesn’t give a fuck, so neither does Alex. That had been quite the nasty fight between the two of them. They don’t talk so much anymore; Liam telling him he’s changed for the worse really struck a nerve with him.   
  
  


Alex doesn’t think he’s personally changed— but he does feel like Liam has. It had all started the day he came home. He had zero interest in speaking to Henry, and only wanted to speak to Alexander directly. He didn’t see a problem with this at the time; nobody in the district knew Henry, it was completely understandable to be weary around him. But this has continued now, six months down the line. He’s the only person who doesn’t talk to Henry, or do business with him down at the Hob. The only person who refuses to give him a chance. He’s taken on some sort of bitter stoicism; he’s always so serious, now. Alex misses the way they could sit here and laugh and say what they really want to say. He misses Liam as a person. It all feels perverted.

After picking up his small, tragic-looking game bag, he examines the callouses on his fingers, and the dirt under his nails. The Capitol had tried so hard to make him look pretty, and in roughly six months, he’s been able to completely take himself apart. He supposes that his team will be rather pissed with him, and rightfully so; he’s left them with nothing to work with. He’s been dreading the Victory Tour ever since he’s come home; what a lovely way to spend a week in February, traveling the country and meeting the parents of all the children you’ve slaughtered. There’s no way to get out of it; he and Henry have tried every possible avenue. Their only choice is to grin and bear it; thinking about it for too long makes Alex sick. 

He twists and warps his body in order to get past the electric fence; the technology is so old at this point that the worst the damned thing could give him is a mild shock, so he doesn’t even bother to listening for the distinct buzzing noise anymore. Before anywhere else, he heads to his house— not the one in the Victor’s Village, but the one in the Seam. The game bag winds up on the kitchen table, and he makes his way through the house, heading to his old bedroom to change into more ‘ _acceptable_ ’ attire. A threadbare sweater, old leather hunting jacket, and stained pants simply won’t do for the high-society people he’ll be meeting with in a few hours from now. His new outfit consists of something much more attractive; a corduroy jacket lined with sheep’s wool, a sleek black turtleneck, tight-fit black trousers, and black dress shoes. He’s no vision of beauty, but he’s presentable, and at the end of the day, that seems to be what really matters.   
  


From there, he drops off the game bag at Liam’s house. His mother’s the one that opens the door, a tired smile on her face and a hand on her swollen abdomen; he vividly remembers the anger Liam portrayed when they heard the news that his mother had become pregnant, they way they’d gone to the woods together to get him to calm down, the way he’d punched a tree and shouted so loudly that he’d scared away any potential meals for miles. Alex could understand his anger, at first; these are not times to be having children in. She’s eight months along, it’s an especially frigid winter, and she’s older. It’ll be a miracle if the poor thing makes it through the first three months. She seems happy though, so Alex decides to ignore his distaste; something that Liam seems incapable of doing as of late. She gives him a decent loaf of cinnamon-dill bread, and a small jar of honey for his efforts; he knows that Liam got in a nasty little scrap with a black bear over a beehive to get this honey, but he feels bad saying no to his mother, so Alex thanks her, continuing on to the Hob.

He doesn’t buy much— a bottle of white liquor for Rafael, a new book for Henry, and a necklace that he figures his mother would find pretty. He stopped by here late last night to work on his present for June, and he thinks she’ll really love it. People look at him weird now, especially when he enters the Hob; Mister Connor tells him it’s because he doesn’t hesitate to throw his money around, and never stops to haggle or barter anymore. When you’re financially set for life, though, haggling with an old man over the price of a bowl of soup is the least of one’s concerns. 

After gathering up all his things, he heads to Zahra’s table to pay for his things; he doesn’t know how she balances her time at the peacekeepers’ base and the Hob so effortlessly. She’s a woman of many secrets and silent wonders. 

“What’re you doin’ with that white liquor, son?” Mister Connor asks, ever the nosy individual. 

“Buyin’ it,” He replies, laughing when the old man lobs an old dish towel at his head. He turns around and throws it back, smiling when Mister Connor catches it in both hands. “Gonna drink the whole damn bottle as soon as I get home.”

As soon as Zahra puts his money in her sorted baskets, she gives him a dirty look, unscrews the lid, and holds the bottle out towards him. “Go ahead then, big shot. Take a swig.”

Alex balks. “I—“

“No, no. You said it was for you, you can drink it.”

He groans, holding it up to his lips and taking in a mouthful as fast as he can. Alex can only describe the sensation as burning, and the taste as paint thinner, and immediately spits out the mouthful on the ground, gagging and groaning. Mister Connor is laughing, the cheeky bastard. 

“Mhm,” Zahra replies, yanking the glass bottle out of his hand and screwing the lid back on before putting it in a cloth bag with the rest of his things. “Stop coverin’ for that drunkard you live down the street from. Doesn’t do any good for anybody.”

Alex glares at her, and she smiles in return. They all talk about the Victory Tour for quite some time, and he expresses his anxiety about the idea in full to them. Mister Connor tells him that he ought to feel grateful, that he’s getting to travel the country, eat good food, and doing things that the average citizen of Twelve will never be able to do. Zahra offers a different approach to his predicament, reminding him that there will be people on the train there to comfort and protect him, and offering a few strategies for working through nervousness and anxiety. They might be a couple of smartasses, but Alex can give them credit where it’s due— they can be extremely helpful in times of need. He knows that the camera crew and style team will be arriving at his house sometime soon, so he tells them goodbye, heading to Rafael’s house in the Victor’s Village.

Since the Games have ended, Raf has completely given up on being sober. Alex can’t find it in his heart to hold the sorry bastard accountable, not after experiencing it firsthand. That doesn’t mean that Raf’s off the hook in his eyes whatsoever; in fact, he finds that he’s absolutely furious with him most days. It all stems back to his week of surgeries in the Capitol after the Games; he’d called all the shots on his medical transition without so much as thinking to ask Alexander if he felt comfortable with undergoing surgeries without his consent. This isn’t to say he’s unhappy with the medical transition he’s undergone; his scars are practically invisible, and his voice sits at a very comfortable baritone. It’s the principle of it, though; Rafael took away his ability to choose, and let the Capitol completely alter his body. He feels absolutely violated.

Not bothering to knock, Alex lets himself inside, slamming the door shut. He hears snoring, and groans, making his way into the kitchen to set the bread down on the table, and his bag in a chair. That’s where he finds Raf, his face pressed into the table, one arm slung above his head, the other strewn across his lap. Alex has already learned the lesson about waking him up, and earned a pretty little scar on his cheek because of it. He stomps around the house, finding a bucket of water in the hallway, presumably there to catch everything leaking through the roof. He grabs the bucket, and flounces back into the kitchen. He’s sure to stand a few feet away from Rafael, then, after taking a few deep breaths, throws the bucket of water on him.

Rafael screams as soon as the water comes in contact with his skin, bolting up in his seat and swinging his knife around like a madman. Being cut by him the last time this happened was the final straw for Alex; he remembers crying while being yelled at by Raf, who was hungover, angry, and ready to blame everyone but himself for his own actions.

“Ever heard of _knocking_ , you stupid son of a bitch?” Raf spits, slamming his knife down on the table to wipe his sopping wet hair out of his eyes. “Ever heard of _shouting my name?_ ”

“Well, I dunno,” Alex replies nonchalantly, pulling the honey and bread out of the bag of goodies that Liam’s mom had given him. “I mean, if your first reaction to being woken up is to literally stab someone, I’m not so sure that using conventional methods would be in my favor.”

“Go put the bucket back the hallway and quit boo-hooing.” Raf instructs, gesturing towards the hallway with his knife. “What gives you the right to come into my house and dump water on me anyways?”

Alex sighs, setting the bucket back down on the ground, positioning it just under the crack in the ceiling. “The whole Victory Tour thing’s supposed to kick off today, remember?”

“Aw, _shit_ — that’s today?”

“Yeah, when did you think it was?”

“Sometime next week.”

“Go figure.”

A knock at the door keeps Rafael from starting an argument. He goes to open it, and Henry steps into the old, rickety house. He looks better than he did when he first woke up this morning— more awake. More lively. He’s changed into his proper clothes as well; a long suede coat, paired with a jumper and button-down shirt. He looks handsome, absolutely stunning. He’s got a huge tureen in his arms; Alex briefly remembers him saying something about heading down to the Hob when they were in bed together. They technically live separately— if Alex lives with his family, that pulls them out of the Seam. Moving in with Henry will have to wait a while. Doesn’t mean he can’t spend the night, though.

“Good morning, Raf.” Henry says cheerily, hurrying inside with the tureen before it slips from his fingers, setting it down on the table with a heavy thud. “And hello again to _you_ , you beautiful, _beautiful_ man.”

He leans down to press a kiss to Alexander’s lips, and Alex laughs when their noses bump together.

“Hey, babe.” He replies, pulling the lid off the tureen, momentarily blinded by the steam that rises from it. “What’ve we got here?”

“Bought some soup off of Stanley,” Henry replies, making Alex laugh.

“You’ve been livin’ here for less than a year, and you already call Mister Connor _Stanley_ ,” He says, shaking his head. “Something about that just tickles me.”

“Well, that’s what he _asked_ me to call him,” Henry points out, confused.

“Oh, I know, it’s just that most people have to earn the privilege of callin’ him that,” Alex explains. “He must like you quite a bit.”

“He says my accent’s funny and that I’ve ‘ _got moxie_ ’, whatever that means.” Henry replies. Alex looks over to him, and finds that his pale face has gone red. 

“That’s just his way of sayin’ your spunky,” He says, turning his gaze to Rafael, who’s currently nursing the bottle of white liquor and standing by the stove. He glares at him, snapping his fingers until he’s grabbed his attention. “Come sit down if you wanna eat today.”

Together, they sit together and eat a small feast of cinnamon-dill bread and gourd and bean soup; there’s some pine bark that’s been added to the soup— Mister Connor’s ‘ _winter specialty_ ’. None of them waste time talking to each other, far too focused on clearing their plates and making room for seconds.

Before he forgets, Alex slides Henry’s new book— a sort of field journal on all the flora and fauna in the area— across the table to him. 

“For me?” Henry asks, sounding shocked at the concept of being given a gift. 

“Mhm,” Alex replies, rotating between sips of water and bites of bread.

He watches as Henry flips through the pages, smiling fondly; the man’s a knowledge sponge, always dying to learn as much as he can on any given topic. “Thank you— this will be good reading for when we’re on the train.”

“You could do paintings of some of the drawings in there, too.” Alex points out through a mouthful of food.

“I could,” Henry agrees, shutting the front cover of the book, smoothing his fingers over the worn leather.

“Oh please, _spare_ me the PDA,” Raf groans sarcastically, taking another swig of white liquor straight from the bottle. The comment in and of itself is probably meant to be harmless, but it makes Alex’s blood boil. They’re allowed to be private when it comes to their affection; their love has been nothing but exploited from the very start. They don’t owe anybody anything at all, especially not friendly, warm affection. “You two could at least _try_ to act like you like each other—“

“Why don’t you just shut the fuck up and go take a bath, you filthy creature?” Alex spits, red and burning up from head to toe. Raf has this way of finding his buttons and just slamming down on them; he’s surprised that he’s never done this before now. “You’re not the one who gets made-over by their own personal styling team; I doubt anyone wants to look at the dried vomit on your shirt. Have a little damn respect for yourself.”

“Alex—“ Henry starts, but Alexander won’t have any of it, standing from the table and grabbing his bag.

“I’ll see you later, Hen. Mom’s probably wondering where I am.”

Blustering and angry, he plants a quick, hard kiss on Henry’s cheek before storming out the front door, slamming it behind himself. He nearly slips on the icy concrete as he makes his way down the stairs, making his way two houses down to his own abode.

“I’m home!” He announces, bursting in the front door. He finds that his mother’s lingering in the doorway, a nervous expression plastered on her face. She touches her middle finger to the space between her eyes, then to the tip of her nose; there are peacekeepers in the house.

“Hey sugar,” Ellen replies, taking Alex’s coat from him after he takes it off, folding it up, unfolding, then refolding it. “Where’ve you been today?” She asks, loud enough for the peacekeepers in the living room to hear him; he peers inside, and he finds them both steeping cups of tea. It seems that his mother’s been trying her damnedest to keep him occupied.

He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I went to Liam’s house to do some work for his mother. Got a jar of honey out of it, and somethin’ special for you,” He lies, passing the bag to her. “Had to go wake up Raf, stopped to eat with him and Henry.” He continues, peering into the living room again. Leo and June are nowhere to be found. “Where are the others?”

“Out tryin’ to sell the milk and cheese from that damn goat you got your sister,” Ellen laughs. “Lady’s gettin’ pretty old. I’m glad you’re lookin’ into gettin’ her a new one.”

“Should be able to bring it home in a week or so,” He starts, cutting himself off when someone emerges from the house’s study. Judging from his sleek, white uniform and meticulously-maintained appearance, he is an official from the Capitol. Alex’s mouth goes dry and scratchy as unprocessed cotton.   
  


“Alexander Claremont-Diaz?” He asks, and Alex nods dumbly, at a loss for words as his heart beats erratically.

“Yessir,” He replies when Ellen elbows him in the ribs, minding his manners.

“Right this way, please.”

Confused and on-edge, Alex follows the man down the hallway, watching as he fumbles with the lock on the study door. The door swings open, and he’s immediately hit with the potent, nauseating stench of blood and roses. 

He peers inside the room, and finds none other than President Jeffery Richards sitting at the study desk, complete in a suit and tie with a single white rose pinned to his jacket, smiling in a faux-polite way. It seems that he’s already become acquainted with Alex’s mother— there’s a cup of tea to his right, and a plate of frosted cookies to his left. 

Richards has come to visit him personally; that doesn’t happen. He’s in trouble, to say the very least.

“My, my, Mister Claremont-Diaz,” Richards drawls, smile becoming much more sinister as Alex is nudged inside the front door. “It has simply been _too_ long.”

For you, maybe, Alex wants to say, but he holds his tongue, nodding as he makes his way to the seat across from Richards. “It really has,” He replies, sitting down and folding his hands neatly in his lap.   
  


The door shuts with a threatening click, and Alex nearly jumps. He’s just been left alone with someone who probably wants to have him hung for treason. How _lovely_. How _wonderful_.

“I do believe that this conversation will flow smoothly,” Richards starts, taking a sip of his tea before setting his cup back down on the saucer. “So long as we agree not to lie to one another.” He tells him, white-gloved fingers tracing along the grain of the desk. “Lies can be terribly dangerous things, Alexander. They can end relationships. They can tear families apart. They can kill people. I don’t want any of that to happen,” He says, leaning back in his seat. “Do you?”

Alexander’s family is being threatened. Henry is being threatened. “Of course not,” He stammers, looking President Richards in the eyes. “I’ve found that the only thing lying does is make the hole you’re stuck in deeper than it was to begin with.”

Richards smirks, a nasty, ugly little thing. “What a curious notion. I’m sure you know what I’m here to speak to you about?”

The berries. The _fucking_ berries. It’s the one thing nobody can get over— he knew something like this would happen sooner or later, but he hadn’t expected the president to pay him a visit because of it. 

“I’m fairly sure,” He admits, gnawing on his bottom lip. “But I’m not certain.”

“That little stunt you pulled at the end of your Games,” Richards says, shifting things around on the desk before looking back to Alex. “The one with the fruit— it’s created a bit of a problem in the districts.”

“Oh?” Alex replies, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. He doesn’t like where this is going. Not one bit. 

“Most believe that your suicide pact with Mister Fox was an act of _insanity_ ,” Richards informs him, staring dead-on at him. “That you were so overcome by your love for him, that you didn’t see the point of living if he wasn’t by your side.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad that most people believe that,” Alex replies, chuckling nervously. “Because give or take the insanity— that’s exactly what happened.”

“You see, as much as I want to believe that,” Richards starts, voice taking on a sympathetic tone. “I cannot. Not when people see your little love affair as an act of defiance. An act of _rebellion_.”

Alex can’t stop the next two words from flying out of his mouth, “Oh, God.”

Richards laughs. “Oh, God _indeed_ , Alexander. Believe it or not, I care about my citizens. I am the president, after all. A rebellion would result in the loss of many, many lives, my dear boy. Far too many to count. Survivors would be left with heinous, absolutely inhumane conditions. Panem functions as a singular, stable system. The districts work together to provide for the entirety of the country. A rebellion would destroy that system.”

“The system can’t be _that_ stable if it can be collapsed by a handful of berries,” Alex argues, and Richards chuckles. 

“You’re quite the clever one, aren't you?” He comments. “If you weren’t trying to overthrow our great democracy, I might suggest that you run for mayor once you’re older.”

Alex is tired of small talk. If he’s going to be killed, he might as well face the music. “Since I’m causing so many problems, why don’t you just execute me? Cause an ‘ _accident_ ’ on the train during the Victory Tour?” He suggests, kicking one leg over the arm of his chair. “Make an example of me— show the citizens what happens to an upstart when they step out of line.”

“As much as I would love to do that— and believe me, I would _love_ it,” Richards assures him, taking another sip of tea. “I’m afraid that would only cause more problems for Panem in the long run. The districts are slow to anger; killing you would only incentivize them.”

“What will you do to me, then?” Alex asks.

“This isn’t about what I’m going to do to _you_ , Alexander. This is about what _you_ can do for your _country_.”

Alex’s brows furrow. “I don’t follow.”

Richards smiles. “ _Convince_ me. Convince _everyone_ that you and Mister Fox are wildly in love during the Tour. Frigid dispositions and tired indifference does not a good appearance make.”

“The country doesn’t belong in my relationship—“ Alex tries to argue, but Richards holds up a hand to silence him. 

“You lost your privilege to privacy when you humiliated the Gamemakers in the arena,” He insists, expression on his face unamused at best. “For the sake of your family and Mister Fox, I suggest that you ought to stop arguing and do as you’re told.”

Alex’s lips pinch into an impossibly thin line. Richards smiles and picks up a cookie, the frosting on top of it resembling the color and shape of a wild lily. “Who made these, your mother?”

“My mother baked them, and Henry decorated them,” Alexander replies, his voice shaking. “Henry can’t cook or bake to save his life.”

“Well, then I assume he’s rather lucky to have you.” Richards comments, continuing to examine the cookie before setting it back down on the plate. “How beautiful. I’d hate to see such talent go to waste.”

He lifts up his teacup, takes a sip, and sets it down again. Alex is hit with a new wave of the nauseating stench of blood. 

“Convince the people, Alexander.” Richards says, echoing his words from earlier. “And convince me. Doing so is the only way to keep our country stable. The only way to keep your family and lover safe. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to them, now would we?”

The rage that Alex feels is white-hot and blinding. “No, sir.”

President Richards smiles— with his teeth this time— and Alexander’s corneas are burned by his bleached, too-white teeth.

“Well, I suggest that you hop to it, then.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is *long* lmao

Alex realizes shortly after Richards leaves that he really has no choice in the matter; he has to convince the world that they are madly in love with each other. He doesn’t know how to do that, though; they’re already in a committed relationship, and it’s so unbelievable that the other districts are rioting over it. If he fails, his family and Henry will be killed. They might even go after Liam and his family. The thought of putting the people that he loves through so much unnecessary pain— it makes him sick to think about it.

It certainly doesn’t help with his newfound anxiety when his mother insists on grilling him as soon as the officials and peacekeepers leave. At first, he thinks that if he asks nicely, and beats around the bush enough times, that he can get her to pick a new topic in conversation. None of it works; she is dead-set on figuring out why the president showed up at their home.   
  


“The president doesn’t make house calls, sugar.” Ellen says, her tone clipped and bitter. “And y’all definitely weren’t talkin’ about the _weather_ back there, so I suggest you fess up before I start assuming the worst.”

“You’re right,” He admits, a devious smirk making its way onto his face. “We _didn’t_ talk about the weather. We talked about your cookies, though. He thought they were real pretty.”

Ellen glares at him. “Do I look like I’m playin’ with you right now?” She questions, gesturing to her face with a twirl of her index. “Take a real good look and tell me.”

“Everything’s _fine_ , Mom.” He insists. Alex feels terrible, lying through his teeth to his mother this way, but it’s for her own good. He thinks that it would kill her, if she learned what really went down in the study. Her heart wouldn’t be able to take it. “I’ve had this visit coming for a while, actually.”

Ellen quirks an eyebrow, obviously unamused. “Oh _really_ , now?”

“Uh-huh. President Richards pays a visit to every Victor to wish them luck on the Tour,” He explains, honestly a bit proud of his ability to think on his feet. It comes with guilt, though, spreading across his skin and eating him alive like a bad rash. He’s always hated lying to others. He remembers what Henry told him in the arena, about his terrible poker face. He wonders if it’s improved any since then. “They just don’t televise that. Believe me, I was just as shocked as you were.”

Ellen lets out a sigh of relief that makes Alex’s heart sink. Oh, if only his poor mama knew. “You had me damn near scared to death, you know. Thought they were gonna take you away.”

Alex chuckles. “Now, where’d you ever get a silly idea like that? I’m Panem’s golden boy— everybody _loves_ me.” He insists, yelping when Ellen pulls a dish towel out of her apron pocket and thwacks him in the chest with it.

“Someone oughta take your ego down a peg or two,” She tells him, lips turning up in a way that suggests she’s trying her absolute hardest not to laugh. A pause of silence fills the room, and it should be comfortable, but the sound of his heartbeat thumping in his ears is really taking Alex out of the moment. “Really though, son, words can’t describe how glad I am to have you home again.” She continues, and Alex feels his heart shatter when Ellen’s eyes start to water. “I won’t lie to you, there were a few moments where I really thought you’d be comin’ home to us in a box—“

“Don’t cry, Mama.” He says, immediately closing the gap between them and gathering Ellen up in his arms. _Mama_. Alexander hasn’t called her that since he was six years old. Something about that makes him more emotional than it should. “I’m right here, and I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I know you’re not,” She whispers, her face snug against his chest. “But that doesn’t stop me from thinking of every possibility that comes to mind.”

“I’ll never leave you, Mama.” He insists; there it is again. _Mama_. “Never, ever, ever.”

Alexander can’t tell anyone about this. If the thought of him dying reduces his mother to the state she’s currently in, the fact that they’re all currently in danger of execution would be too much for her to bear. If she found out, she would never recover. He comes to an unfortunate realization, and it makes him want to scream; the only person he can tell is Rafael. As much as he dislikes the sorry bastard, Alex feels like he’s the only person that he can trust to take this to the grave.

“I love you,” Ellen tells him, voice muffled and watery with tears.

“I love you, too.” Alex replies, holding her tighter as he tries not to seethe over his revelation. “And I’m not going anywhere. Never again.”

When Eros and Olympia arrive, he is very thoroughly chastised for not maintaining his once-perfect physical appearance. They cry and tut at him, nearly brought to hysterics by his supposedly disheveled experience.   
  


“Really Alex, you’ve left us with nothing to work with!” Eros exclaims, currently working on taming Alexander’s wild mane of curls. 

“When’s the last time you washed your face?” Olympia asks, a disgusted look on her face. “There’s enough oil on your face for a damn fish fry.”

“ _Shit_ , I can’t remember.” He admits, feeling his face flush bright red when Olympia and Eros both freeze up. 

“Has it really been _that_ long?” Eros asks, sounding shocked.

“I mean, I _guess_.” Alex replies, skin burning with embarrassment. “I just— I don’t have any motivation to do all the prissy stuff, you know?” He tells them, resisting the urge to slide out of his seat and curl up in a hall on the floor. “I’m just so tired all the _time_ , and everyday brings a new obstacle; I don’t have the mental wherewithal to fuss over my complexion everyday, y’all.”

The room goes dead quiet, and Eros goes back to snipping away at Alexander’s hair.   
  


“Some mild soap on your face can go a long way, you know,” Olympia insists, her tone much softer. “I understand that you might not be feeling your best after the Games, but that’s no reason to start letting yourself go.”

Alex doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he opts to stay silent instead.

“How do like it?” Pez asks, hovering nervously by the edge of Alexander’s bed. 

Alex is standing in front of a full-length mirror, carefully contemplating himself. In all honesty, his outfit hasn’t changed that much from earlier in the day; he’s still wearing a turtleneck and slim-fit trouser combination, except they’re both black and cling effortlessly to his body. The ensemble has been paired with heeled dress boots, dangling silver earrings, and a long, fluffy coat made up of synthetic mockingjay feathers.

“It’s iconic, of course,” He begins, turning from one side to the other to view his body at every possible angle. “And you’ve made my ass look fantastic.”

“I did the best with what I was presented with,” Pez jokes, smiling lovingly. “I’m sensing a ‘ _but_ ’ somewhere?”

“How in the hell are the folks at home gonna believe that I made this?”

In order to keep public interest, Victors usually play into whatever hidden talents they might have. Henry can draw and paint; not really a secret, but his skills are far too impressive to be doubted by anyone with two functioning eyes. When Alex told his team that he wasn’t particularly good at anything, they’d all thought he was joking, and had a good laugh about it. After running through a list of small talents, they’d learned that he was telling the truth. Playing the guitar, dancing, gymnastics— all talents that June possesses, and all things that Alex can’t do to save his life. Henry insists that he can sing like an angel; he would rather have Richards come back and drag him down to Hell than sing for these people. Ultimately, they decided that Alex would ‘ _study_ ’ under Pez for a while. In other words, Pez would make something subpar for a seasoned expert, but awe-inspiring for a beginning designer, and let Alex take all the credit. It’s all gone smoothly so far, but Pez is starting to show off, and it’s certainly not helping with any anxiety Alexander is currently experiencing.   
  


“I know it looks like an advanced piece, but I used a very simple stitch pattern on the jacket,” They admit, gesturing about with their hands. “The feathers were secured in place with thread and this industrial-strength fabric adhesive out of One. You could probably make something better with your eyes shut.”

“I most certainly could _not_ ,” He replies, locking eyes with Pez in the mirror’s reflection. He wants to tell them about everything that happened earlier today, but decides against it. Putting them in danger just isn’t worth it. Pez is one of the only people he really has left after the Games. He cannot afford to lose them. He’s the one to break eye contact, his gaze shifting to the ground.

“I’d something wrong, dear?” They ask, slowly making their way toward him. “You look a bit pale.”

“‘M fine,” Alex replies, putting on a nervous, weak smile. “I just want Henry to like my outfit, is all.” Another lie. Another stone deepening the cavern of his chest.

“He’s going to adore it,” Pez tells him, tucking a curl behind his ear. “And if he doesn’t, he’ll have to take it up with me.”

Alex giggles— a nervous, queasy-sounding titter— and Pez kisses him on the cheek. Even when he feels as if he may die from all the dread he’s feeling, Pezza always knows how to lift his spirits.

“Now run along, you useless thing,” They scold playfully, shoving him out the bedroom door. “You’ve got a handsome young thing to make bedroom eyes at.”

Nora is the one to escort him out of the house. Instead of acid green, her color palette this year consists of vibrant blues and purples. He feels as if it suits her much better. They catch up, chatting excitedly amongst one another, until something, someone, catches Alexander’s eye in the distance.

_Henry_. 

He can’t stop himself. Feet sliding against the slippery ice, he sprints into Henry’s arms, their bodies slamming together so hard that Henry’s prosthetic leg gives out, sending them both flying to the ground in a heap of snow and feathers. Alex is terrified that he might have hurt Henry, and Henry mirrors his mortified expression. After catching his breath, Alexander finds himself laughing, surging forward to kiss him. It’s their first kiss on the lips outside of their sleepless nights and lazy mornings— it doesn’t feel as special as it should. Alex, ever so irate, wants nothing more than to be left alone. He remembers Richards’ words, though, and plays nice for the cameras, acting every bit like the sweet, clingy boyfriend Panem thinks he is. He knows that Henry knows something’s wrong; he can feel it in the way he rubs circles into his lower back, in the way he squeezes Alex’s hand if he stares into space for a moment too long. 

As soon as the camera crew wraps up, and everyone boards the train to start towards District Eleven, he grabs Henry’s hand and makes a beeline towards Raf. 

“I need to talk to both of you,” He tells them, looking rapidly between Henry and Rafael. “Privately.”

“Can’t it wait until _tomorrow_ , sweetheart?” Raf asks, reaching for a bottle of spirits. “I’ve just found the most delightful refreshments—“

“President Richards was at my house this morning,” He blurts. 

Henry stiffens. Rafael’s glass slips from his hand and falls to the floor, shattering into irreparably tiny pieces. 

“You’re in trouble,” Raf acknowledges, ever so astute.

“We _all_ are,” Henry replies, gravely, as if he already knows about the horrors to come.   
  


Alex tells them everything, from the moment he walked in the door, to the moment Richards walked out. How they’d all been threatened with unknown punishments, should they be unable to convince the districts that they’re madly in love with each other. 

“Well,” Raf sighs, white knuckles grasping at the armrests of the chair. “You two are _fucked_.”

“How so?” Henry rasps, sounding absolutely ill. Alex turns to look at him properly; he’s gone ash grey, and his face is shining with sweat. The stress of it all has quite literally made him sick. 

“Not only do y’all have to get through the Tour, but you will never, _ever_ have another moment of privacy for the rest of your lives,” Raf spits. “You don’t get to be jaded, traumatized children anymore. You have been christened as star-crossed lovers and happy, model Victors. The Capitol’s newest fucking lapdogs. Every year, when you’re sending our district’s youth to their doom, your love life will be revisited. You two don’t get to be forgotten like I was— you two will _never_ get off this train.”

The room goes dead silent, and for a moment, Alex worries that Henry is going to lose his lunch. He’s more than surprised when Henry clears his throat, the first one to speak up.

“It’s quite apparent to me,” He tells them both, picking at the loose threads of the couch. “What our next move should be.”

“And what’s that, exactly?” Raf asks, and it hits Alex like a bag of bricks.

“We have to get married,” He croaks, staring a hole in the laminate wood floor of the sitting room. “It’s the only way to get them off our backs.”

“Well, I’m sure that there are other ways, if you’re not comfortable with taking that step quite yet?” Henry proposes, although his suggestion becomes more of a question. 

Alex shakes his head, looking back up towards Henry. “I’m fine with it. Are you?”

He shrugs in return. “I mean, I wish we could have done this on our own terms, but I’m definitely not opposed to getting married.”

Raf chuckles, and Alexander can’t help the way he glares at him. “Congratulations on the engagement, boys. Time to go ring shopping, blondie.”

That’s when Alex fully processes the magnitude of the situation; in order to save the lives of those he cares about most, he is sacrificing his privacy, and the remains of his childhood.

The three of them return to the train in silence, and Raf makes a nasty little jab; something about overlooking District Twelve tradition for the sake of a televised wedding. It bothers him so badly that he can’t sleep that night, not even with the bedside lamp turned on.

“If you don’t get some sleep, your team is going to give you hell tomorrow,” Henry murmurs, pressing a languid, slow kiss to his neck.

Alex sighs, curling into his warmth. “I can’t stop thinking about what Raf said,” He admits. “Getting married in Twelve isn’t anything special, but it’s small, and it’s private. Only family and friends. I want that for us.”

“I mean, so do I,” Henry replies, tone empathetic, a hand splayed across Alex’s stomach. “But there’s no backing out of this. If we’re getting married, the Capitol will make it into some campy pay-per-view spectacle.”

“We _could_ get our marriage license in Twelve,” He offers, speaking softly, not wanting anyone possibly passing by to hear what they’re discussing. “And just, I dunno, live as a married couple until the actual wedding?”

“If we do that, Richards might actually kill us.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“You are,” Henry starts, sitting up in bed and slinging a leg around Alexander’s waist. “An absolute _menace_.” He bends down and presses their lips together, quick and chaste. Alex wonders if he’ll always feel the rush that comes with being madly in love at age eighteen; all light-headed and senseless, completely perfect despite his endless list of flaws. They break away for air, and Henry smiles down at him. “I can’t wait to be your husband.”

Alex grins, and pulls him down, letting Henry rest his head on his chest. He slips a hand up his shirt, feeling the way his chest expands and deflates with every breath. “We’ll go to Amy’s house and see about gettin’ a marriage license as soon as the Tour’s outta the way.” He says. “It’s about damn time we have something for ourselves.”

“I couldn’t possibly agree more.”

With a final kiss, they exchange their ‘ _goodnights_ ’ and ‘ _I love you’_ s, and Alexander watches as Henry falls asleep. He always stays up as long as he can— just to be sure that nothing’s going to happen to either one of them once they’re knocked out. He can’t help but notice how beautiful Henry is when he sleeps. So blissful, and innocent, and completely unaware of the evils of the outside world. Alex wishes they could always be like this— calm and content, intimate and in love without anyone watching. He supposes it doesn’t do any good to dwell on wishes he knows won’t be fulfilled. 

His eyes grow heavy, and before he drifts off, something Rafael told them sticks out in his head: you will never get off this train. 

As true and terrifying as that is, he’s glad he’s got Henry riding right along with him.

It’s not long after he finally dozes off that Nora is beating their door down and requesting for them to come to the dining car for breakfast. A mess of citrus fruit, flaky pastries with blackberries and a tart, thick yoghurt filling, and gin and jam cocktails. He’s not exactly sure when he began drinking spirits, but he knows that this is about as heavy as he’ll down. He doesn’t see how Raf can sit there and down a bottle of white liquor in the span of an afternoon. The brain fog is debilitating, and the taste is horrendous. He’s pleasantly tipsy by the end of breakfast, laughing at Nora’s mortified expression as she watches Henry peels a lemon and eat it, slice by slice.

After breakfast, Olympia and Eros steal him away for prep. He’s bathed, waxed, polished, and slathered in oil. It takes hours; it’s in this agonizing span of time that he’s realized he’ll be meeting Bay and Daisy’s families. He’ll be expected to give a happy little speech, to look out across a sea of starving, heartbroken, angry people, and wax poetic about the Capitol. The thought is so vile that he has to sit up and curl his body around the nearest waste basket for a spill; the spirits have worn off, and he is _alarmingly_ sober.

When his team is finished preening and plucking at his body, he joins Henry and the others for lunch. Henry’s all clean-shaven and baby-faced, and Raf’s hair has been combed, his beard trimmed. Nora has not changed in the slightest— when asked why, she replied with a resounding, “Why change perfection?” He doesn’t acknowledge anyone’s attempts to draw him into conversation— his mind feels like it’s swimming. The only thing that provides him an ounce of ease is Henry’s hand on the back of his neck, smoothing over his skin in soothing motions.

Suddenly, the train comes to a choked, sputtering stop, and Alex immediately assumes the worst. Richards has decided to stage a horrible accident, and this is merely the prelude to his demise. He peers around the table; Raf and Henry seem unfazed, and Nora seems terribly miffed. 

“I’ll be right back,” She tells them all, her upper lip straight and stiff as she flounces out of the dining car, her heels clicking incessantly against the floor. Alex uses this time away from her as the perfect opportunity to prop his elbows up on the table, burying his face in his hands. 

Henry’s hand slips from his neck to the middle of his back, the soft touch of his fingertips lighting up Alexander’s spine and leaving goosebumps. His breath is warm, tickling Alex’s neck. 

“Do we need to go somewhere quiet?” He asks, concern seeping into his voice. “You seem a bit tired.”

Alex lifts his head up, smiling reassuringly. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking, though.” He murmurs in response. He can tell that Henry doesn’t buy it, but there’s not enough time to argue, not with Nora storming back into the room.

“The train’s broke down due to a malfunctioning part!” She exclaims, grabbing her flute of champagne and downing it, setting down the empty glass a touch too hard. “I mean, this is just _unbelievable!_ ”

Raf lets out a groan that dissolves into a laugh, scrubbing over his face with his hands. Nora’s shrill voice grates on Alex’s ears, making all of his hair bristle and stand on end.

Henry, the only one who’s really paying attention, decides to start asking questions. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”

Nora’s face is flushed red, and her lips wobble with unbridled rage. “Upwards of an hour. An _hour!_ Which is completely and utterly unacceptable. Not only is this train a new model, but it’s just _bad manners_ to be running late when it comes to these things. It’s as if we’ve abandoned all good sense and decorum—“

“For fuck’s sake, Nora, _nobody cares!_ ” Alex snaps, done with her nonsensical whinging. He doesn’t know what’s happened to her in the past six months, but the campy Capitol dial in her has been turned all the way up to eleven. “It’s a fucking _train_ , they break down all the time. I doubt District Eleven cares about our damn _manners_ — we’re giving speeches to the families of children that we watched _die_ , in case you don’t remember.” He’s trembling with anger, and feels like he should stop, but he doesn’t. “They don’t give a _shit_ about us or what we have to say. If you’re gonna sit here and bitch about an hour delay, I’d give the rest of my earnings to see you spend a _week_ in my shoes. You’re acting fucking _pitiful_ ; get over it.”

Alex looks around. Rafael’s eyes are wide, and Henry’s gone a ghastly shade of grey from shock. Nora’s face is blustery and red, but her eyes don’t water, and her lips are no longer quivering. He’s hurt her— in a way that means something to her. He wants to take it back, but when he opens his mouth, he flounders, and nothing comes out. Overwhelmed, he storms out of the dining car, slamming the door behind himself; it’s supposed to be an automatic door, but he doesn’t even give the motion censors a chance.

Wordlessly, he makes his way through the train, opening and slamming doors, eventually collapsing to the ground in a crying, shaking heap. It’s all too much for him; it feels like he’s reliving his worst nightmare on repeat, every waking moment of his life. He wants to scream, to damn everything and everyone under the skin, to pull at his hair and claw at his skin until he’s numb to all pain. A strangled sob escapes from his chest, painful and filled with grief.   
  


Henry finds him a few moments later, panicked expression on his face as he flops to the floor beside Alexander, pulling his jacket off of him, checking his pulse from any and all points that he can find.   
  


“What’s wrong?” Henry asks, sounding eerily calm. “Alex, darling, show me where it hurts.”

Alex throws himself forward, grabbing onto Henry wherever he can, tucking his head into his chest. His tears are scalding hot and blinding, and every breath is a shudder of pain. Henry repeats his request again and again, and the only response that he receives for a good moment is choked sobbing. 

“I can’t do this, baby,” He eventually rasps, rocking himself in an attempt at self-soothing. “I can’t, I can’t, _I can’t._ ”

“Talk me through it,” Henry instructs. “I’m here, I’m listening.”

“I can’t do this,” He sobs. “I _killed_ people. I watched their friends— their _children_ — die. How am I supposed to look them in the eyes? What am I supposed to do? I— I—“

“Shh, breathe, love.” Henry reminds him, rocking in time with him. “You’re doing so well. Just keep talking to me.”

“I feel like I never left,” He admits, coughing and gasping. “I feel like I’m still in the fucking Games. Like I’m in the arena, and there’s no fucking way out. It’s always in my head. When she— when Nora started complaining about running late, I don’t know why, but that’s what did it for me. Like, sorry we’re running late to spew government propaganda at mourning families. What does she want me to _say_? What does she _want_ from us?”

“I know,” Henry replies softly, smoothing Alex’s hair down. “I know, I know, I know. You were struggling, and I knew that. We should have just left when I suggested that we do so. I’m sorry for letting you go through that.”

Alex goes through waves of sobbing and calming down until the train’s started up again. He finally calms down then, trembling and embarrassed by the scene he’s just made.

“I’m sorry,” He finds himself apologizing, wiping at his still-wet face. “I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the best of me like that.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Henry insists, pecking him on the forehead. “There have been times where I’ve wanted nothing more than to lash out like that.”

“How do you stand it all?” Alex asks, sniffling. “I mean— I can only handle so much.”

“Well, I remind myself of why I’m here,” Henry replies. “I find that making lists of all the things that make me happy in a day helps.”

“Tell me some of your things?” He begs, yearning for a distraction.

“When I woke up, you were sleeping,” Henry starts. “That doesn’t seem like much, but you have a habit of only sleeping when it’s light outside. It worries me at times. It’s alright to be afraid of the dark, you know.”

“I am _not_ afraid of the dark.”

“Sure,” He responds briefly, continuing. “Raf was sober this morning— that’s always a good thing. I made you laugh at breakfast by freaking out Nora. We drove past a gorgeous field of wildflowers while our teams were getting us ready. I’ve been able to get some painting done in our spare time; I’ve even brought some of my paints on the train. Did some quick work while you were finishing up.”

Alex hums pleasantly, going to chew on his already-chapped fingers, sighing when Henry pulls them away from his mouth and kisses them. “Will you show me?”

Henry makes an uncertain sound in the back of his throat. “I’m not too sure you’ll like them. They’re quite touchy.”

“I love everything that you do,” Alex tells him, as simply and effortlessly as breathing. “Please, show me?”

Henry sighs quietly, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, before nodding, pecking Alex on the cheek. “I suppose one quick look won’t hurt.”

They hoist themselves up off the dusty ground, and schlep through the rest of the train, until they reach a bedroom that Alex had assumed was vacant; a perfectly wonderful place for hiding Henry’s unfinished projects. Together, they make their ways inside.

The room’s lights flick on, and what Alexander sees makes him sick to his stomach. The paintings aren’t bad, but they’re so vivid and realistic that they make his pulse accelerate and his head spin. The first one he sees is of the mutts surrounding the Cornucopia, snarling and rabid, the whole thing reminiscent of a modern depiction of Golgotha. On a smaller canvas, the second painting he sees is of the poor girl from District Four after the attack of the tracker-jackers, her mangled face swollen and distorted. The biggest canvas has been saved for the most devastating piece; Bay. He appears as if in a deep sleep, flowers in his hair and cradled around his soft little face. The background is an abstract assortment of warm colors, really tying the whole thing together. Alex feels like he’s choking.   
  


Henry comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Alex’s waist and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Alex finds his hands, and clings to them for dear life.

“I think about it, too,” He admits, voice not as warm and lively as it had been before. “When I’m awake, when I’m asleep; it’s all I think about, now.”

“Do you think we’ll ever stop thinking about it?” Alex asks. He already knows the answer, but he’s clinging to a sliver of hope.

“I don’t know,” Henry replies softly, swaying from side to side, back to self-soothing. “But in the meantime, we’ll take moving on day-by-day. Together.”

For now, Alexander’s hope remains intact.

The train finally arrives in District Eleven, their first stop on the Victory Tour. Nora’s regained that pep in her step, now that they’re back on track and Alex has profusely apologized to her. She and Rafael exit the train first, then Alex and Henry emerge, hand in hand. He takes a moment to look around the place, and is shocked by what he sees. Truckloads of peacekeepers, and a sea of scrawny, exhausted, sickly people standing in the square. Eleven might be double— no, triple— the size of Twelve. He looks past the district square, and finds that all of the buildings are dilapidated and breaking down. It’s a horrendous sight; so much pain. So many hungry mouths and swollen bellies. 

“And I thought _Twelve_ was bad,” Nora murmurs under her breath, still putting forth her most photogenic smile. 

“Twelve _is_ bad,” Raf replies, not bothering to perk up for the cameras. “Eleven’s just _worse_. They’ve _always_ been worse.”

The stage in the square is much like the one in Twelve, except this one looks like it hasn’t been power-washed for the better part of a decade, covered in dirt and various other curious stains. They’re greeted by the mayor once they reach the middle of the stage, and thanked for stopping along the way. Alex wants to tell him that no thanks are necessary, that he and Henry should be apologizing for coming in the first place, for rubbing salt in such a fresh wound. 

They all spend some time listening to the mayor speech, before Alex and Henry are given the opportunity to make their own. On raised platforms in the crowd, Alexander finds two families. Two women holding hands, and an elderly woman with a cane beside them. On the other platform, he finds a mother and father, holding onto three children— two girls and a young boy, none of them older than ten. They all bear a distinct similarity to Bay. That means that the women must be related to Daisy. He thinks they might be her mothers and grandmother.

He realizes that his feelings will eat him alive if he continues to stare at them this way, and yet, he is rapt. These are the families of the children he watched die. Of the children who died in his arms. Who died to keep him safe. His eyes begin to water, and he looks down, making a grab for Henry’s hand and feigning attention in what he’s saying.

“— Bay and Daisy were bright, beautiful souls. That much is apparent,” Henry continues, voice clear and echoing through the speakers placed all throughout the square. “They were both selfless, and brave, and so, so young. They endured many hardships, and made sacrifices that no children should have to make. It is an irrefutable fact that, without their good graces and warm hearts, my partner and I would not be standing here today.”

Alex reaches up to wipe at his eyes. He’d promised himself that he wasn’t going to cry here, but he can’t seem to help himself. 

“That’s why, as a show of our gratitude, Alexander and I will be donating a month of our winnings to Bay and Daisy’s families every year. For the rest of our lives.”

Alex’s heart swells at his words. He looks to Henry, and finds his chin tilted up to the sky, his eyes watering heavily. He nudges him to the side, taking over to say a few words. Henry saved him back there. Now it’s his turn.

“When I first watched the reaping back last year, after being shoved onto a train in my best dress clothes, I watched, mortified, as Bay was reaped. I remember being so angry that nobody had volunteered to take his place, because I knew, had I been here when that happened, I would have given my life for his. I quickly realized just how resourceful he was— smart as a whip and twice as fast. He kept me alive for two days while I seized and hallucinated in a hole in the ground. He didn’t have to do that; he was selfless enough to do that. He reminds me of my sister that way. Always putting themselves last to help the people they care about. I see him everyday— in the children running through my district, and in the meadow of blooming flowers behind my old house,” He clears his throat, looks to Daisy’s family, and continues. “Unfortunately, I didn’t really get to know Daisy. I had been intimidated by her silence and strength, and tried to steer clear of her. She could have let me die, when she saw me at the business end of the girl from Two’s knife, but she didn’t. She let me live, because I had done everything I could to save Bay’s life. We had formed a one-time alliance over shared trauma; the loss of a friend, and the loss of a child. If it weren’t for Daisy, I would be dead.” He takes a deep breath, and looks between the two families. 

“Your children were heroes, and they both deserve to be with us here today. There’s not a day that goes by where I’m not thinking about them. I think I’ll be that way for the rest of my life.”

He hears Rafael mumbling something behind him in a slightly angry, high tone, but he can’t make out the words. Not when his ears are ringing and swimming like this. He watches in shock as an old man in the crowd touches three fingers to his lips, before raising them up into the air, whistling the four-note tune that Bay and Alex used to signal to each other during the Games. His heart freezes up in his chest when more people in the crowd follow suit. Normally, this would be something touching, meant as a ‘ _thank you_ ’ or a final goodbye. It feels different here, though. There’s an ulterior motive at play. 

This is adding fuel to the fire, he realizes; this is the growing rebellion. Mortified, he watches as peacekeepers swarm the crowd, grabbing the old man and dragging him out by his arms.

_Oh God_ , Alex realizes, _they’re going to kill him._

The old man is beaten and thrown to the ground in front of the stage, and Alex begins to panic as peacekeepers grab him from behind, hauling him inside. 

“No!” He shouts, putting up a bit of a fight, trying to run forward before he’s yanked back, hard. The old man is kneeling now, and spits out a mouthful of blood onto the pavement.

“No, _stop!_ ” Alex shrieks. He doesn’t want anymore people dead at his hands. Not like this. “ _Leave him alone! Leave him alone, let him—“_

The doors to the District Eleven Justice Building are slammed in his face just as a bullet is put through the old man’s head.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another long one!! Featuring:  
> Cash  
> Nora being the messy girl who takes her shoes off when she gets too drunk   
> And ✨ government mandated romance ✨   
> Enjoy lmao

Alex collapses to the ground, shaking and crying. Richards was right; they’ve got a real uprising on their hands. And the protests are killing people. He feels someone reach out for him from behind— probably Henry— and swats their hand away. They don’t catch his drift, so he swats at them again, _harder_ , and they relent. Through a thick haze of tears, he sees Raf standing at the dead bolted doors. Even he looks frightened. Nora’s found a sensible armchair, and she would seem unfazed, if she wasn’t using a compact to cover up fresh tear tracks running through her expertly caked-on makeup. Things are worse than he could have ever imagined. So, _so_ much worse.   
  


“So, what we’re _not_ gonna do anymore,” Raf starts, turning on his heel and walking towards Alex, crouching down to the ground to get on his level. “Is shit like _that_. No more improvised speeches, no more feelings and heartfelt words. None of that.”

“He— he—“ Alex stammers, letting out a pathetic sort of screeching sob. Raf, completely out of character, starts wiping tears away with his calloused fingers and shushing him. “I want it to _stop_ , Raf. Someone just _died_ because of me, I—“

“Shh, sweetheart. None of that was your fault,” Raf tries to assure him, words falling on deaf ears. “They just— they feel your pain, you know? They know what you’re going through. That’s why you’re all wrapped up in this. You were easy to root for and project onto. That’s all.”

“Richards is gonna kill us—“

“ _No_ ,” Raf insists. “No, he is _not_. I won’t let ‘em. You gotta do what Nora and I say, though. No more promises or martyrdom. That shit doesn’t help anybody. Talkin’ to you, too, blondie.”

“Yessir,” Henry croaks from somewhere behind Alex, sniffing tearfully. “I was just trying to help, I didn’t want that to—“

“I know son, but sometimes knowing when to shut the fuck up is what helps the most.” Rafael retorts. His voice vibrates Alex’s head, which has been tucked into his chest for quite some time now. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. Nora’s gonna write speeches, and y’all are gonna have little cue cards. You two are going to stand beside each other, look like you can’t get enough of each other, and read your speeches off the cards word for word. That’s how we’re gonna get through the rest of this damn tour. Okay?”

He’s met with noises of affirmation, and helps Alex up off the ground, standing him on his feet before pulling away.

“Dry your tears, boys. We’ve got a train to catch.”

The rest of the Tour is anything but smooth. In every district they visit, the entirety of the team is watched by peacekeepers. It really feels like the prologue to something more sinister. Rafael’s yelled at more than a few for manhandling Nora. Alexander tries to use Henry as a physical and emotional crutch, leaning on him for moral support. Together, they try to up the act as much as they can; kissing one another on platforms, lovestruck gazes, Henry’s hand always glued to Alex’s waistline— they’ve done it all. There have been a few districts that have welcomed them with open arms. Behind their excitement of meeting the newest Victors, however, was thinly veiled rage, all of which was aimed towards the Capitol. Alexander realized by the time they’d reached District Nine that it doesn’t matter how in love they look; they cannot silence the growing crowds of angry people all throughout Panem.

He’s lost weight, and he’s stopped sleeping. Every time he shuts his eyes, all he sees is Bay and that old man. Sometimes they’re back-to-back, sometimes they’ve swapped places. He’s woken up screaming so many times, that he’s sworn off rest altogether. Nora starts advocating for him to get on medication when she finds him hiding from the rest of the team and Henry in a sitting area, crying hysterically due to exhaustion. The pills don’t work the way they’re supposed to; his nightmares only get more disturbing and realistic. Henry’s always there when he wakes up, though, lulling him back to sleep with soft words and gentle touches. He knows it has to be so draining for him; the thought of depriving Henry of sleep is burning a hole in Alex. 

They finally reach the Capitol, and they’re scrambling for ideas to convince the districts that their love is real. It dawns on Alex the night before they’re set to go back on Leto Lynch’s talk show, a cup of milk mixed with honey and spices clutched in his hands.

“We need to figure _somethin_ ’ out,” Raf grumbles, making himself a whiskey sour in the sitting room. They may only have the hotel floor for the night, but that’s not stopping him from robbing the place of every drop of alcohol.   
  


“A grand romantic gesture can go a very long way,” Nora tells them. “We need to distract them— to give them something to talk about.”

“I’m _aware_ , but what could that be?” Henry asks, sounding anxious and rather fed-up. “What could we possibly do to get the districts to settle down? We can’t just quench a rebellion overnight.”

“You’re going to propose to me tomorrow night on live television,” Alex tells him, not giving him any say in the matter. He takes a sip of his drink, wets his lips, and continues speaking. “After I’m done talking, Rafael is going to take you out to buy me a ring. It’ll be something flashy enough for the Capitol to obsess over for a few weeks, but simple enough for the districts to approve of. You’ll get down on one knee, and I’ll cry and pretend to act so _unbelievably_ shocked. It won’t do much terms of stopping anything, but it’ll make the rebels think twice about us.”

Henry’s brows furrow as he leans over the coffee table, staring Alex down. “For someone who wanted something calm and quiet, you’ve certainly put a quite a bit of thought into this.”

“I’m tired of _killing_ people, Henry.” He replies, exhausted. “If this is really what it takes to keep everything under wraps, then I really don’t care.”

“The possibility of this quenching any upcoming rebellious activity is slim. Around a thirty-five percent chance.” Nora tells the room.

“That number’s not _zero_ , though.” Alex replies. “And if there’s any chance that this could work, we need to bust a move.”

Raf and Henry exchange weary looks, before Rafael groans, pulling himself up out of his chair. 

“ _Not_ the way I wanna be spending my Friday night.” He grumbles, grabbing his jacket and heading towards the door.

“My ring size is a seven,” Alex replies, blowing a kiss at Henry.

Henry catches the kiss, tucks it into his coat pocket, patting it before exiting the room. Saving the love for when he needs it. 

“I’m sorry that this is what it had to come to,” Nora sighs, reaching over to ruffle Alex’s hair with her expertly manicured fingers. “You two deserve too much better.”

“It’s fine—“

“No, Alexander. It’s not. I don’t care about what you’ve done, or what you _think_ you did. You and Henry are deserving of happiness, and I won’t hear a word against that.”

Despite the cramping pain in his chest, he can’t help smiling. “You’re too good to me, Nora.”

Her responding grin is wild and mischievous. “Just doing my job.”

Just as Alex had expected, the Capitolites lose their minds over the proposal. He holds up his part of the bargain, crying and laughing and making a damn fool of himself. He thinks now that his talent should have been acting. The ring’s an old brass thing, trees hand-engraved into the metal. It shines brilliantly in the overhead lighting, giving the illusion that it might be inlaid in precious stones. Leto Lynch takes his hand to get a better look at the ring, and nearly faints on stage. He’s never seen the Capitol go wild about something that’s not drizzled in diamonds before; it’s oddly refreshing.

Backstage, Alex and Henry high-five; a mission accomplished.

“Now that,” Raf says, grinning. “Was some next-level acting, sweetheart. C’mere.”

Alex sighs as Raf wraps his arms around him, finally feeling like he can breathe. He’d known that the proposal was coming, but that didn’t stop shock from coursing through his veins when Henry got down on one knee. Staged or not, being proposed to is still a big deal.

“Hello, Mister President,” Nora greets, sounding a bit panicked. Alex immediately wriggles out of Raf’s arms and grabs Henry’s hand, squeezing it hard. 

Richards is smiling, wearing similar attire to what he’d been wearing when he had visited Alex back in the Victor’s Village. “Hello, all. I thought I would come by and congratulate the grooms-to-be. It’s not everyday that one gets engaged.”

“Thank you,” Henry is quick to say, plastering on a saccharine smile. “I’ve been planning on this all for a while now. Decided that there was just something _different_ about tonight.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad that you came to the realization. The audience certainly seemed to eat it up.” Richards replies, smile unwavering as his gaze flits to Alexander. “That had to be quite nerve wracking for you, being proposed to on live television.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Alex replies, tone coy and face dead. “I _did_ just win the Hunger Games, after all.”

Richards hums. “That you did. No second thoughts, I hope?”

“I’m perfectly content in my relationship,” He says, tone firm and cold. “I would never dream of turning Henry down.”

“How wonderful.” Richards looks to the whole group now, dialing up his charm as best as he can. “I’m looking forward to seeing you all at the mansion tomorrow. It will be quite the celebration, with you lot in tow.”

“Looking forward to it,” Raf replies on Alex’s behalf.

Henry and Nora echo his sentiments. Alexander merely raises an eyebrow. Richards knows exactly what he means by it. Knows that there have been questions left unanswered; did their act work? Has the threat of rebellion died down? Will his friends and family make it out of this alive?

Richards gives one firm shake of his head, still grinning, before he turns on his heel, leaving them all backstage.

Alex is so disturbed by the implications of Richards’ answer, that his stress has caused him to fall ill. The slightest fraction of light sends him into a splitting headache, any and all sound leaving him woozy. Henry is spiraling; he didn’t catch what happened, and doesn’t know how to care for him. He results to holding Alex against his chest for the rest of the evening and the majority of the following day, rubbing his back and coaxing him into eating and drinking as much as he’s able. 

At the same time that he’s shrouded in misery, Alexander can’t help but feel relief. He doesn’t have to turn his love of Henry into a overly-affectionate caricature of itself anymore. He doesn’t have to worry about who’s going to die because of him when he’s the next one on the chopping block. He’s run through the idea of running off with Henry to live in the wild a few times, now. He’d have to bring his family too; he just doesn’t know if June and his father would be able to survive. Ultimately, he rules the idea out. It’s far too big a risk. 

Pez is the one to pull them both out of bed, kicking Henry out and down the hall to go get ready with his own stylist. They pull the curtains, smiling and humming to themself, obviously ignoring Alex as he groans in pain. 

“I’ve got something stellar planned out for you,” They say, sounding animated and excited as they rip the sheets off of Alex. “I’m even doing your makeup this time.”

Alexander whines pitifully, balling up on his side. “Can we do this some other time?”

“ _Absolutely not!_ ” They reply, voice raising an octave. “I know that you aren’t feeling well, but that’s nothing that a good snack and some medicine can’t fix.”

“I’m serious, Pez.”

“So am I. We’re running on a timed schedule here, starlet. I’m starting an hour in advance because I knew exactly what I was going to be dealing with, here. The sooner you get up, the sooner we can get started on making you feel better.”

Begrudgingly, Alex gets up, and lets Pezza feed him a pack of soup crackers and force two bottles of water down his throat. He’s given a pill for pain, and another for anxiety. More water. Bathroom break. Pez finally gets to start putting Alex together around thirty minutes later. They tell him that now that he’s of age, they’re going for a more seductive approach. He understands where they’re coming from, with the vampy blacks and plums, the low cuts and the sharp edges, but he just feels foolish. Pez has to do his nails twice because he touched them before they were dry, and they have to fan his eyes for five minutes because he’s close to tears after having his lower waterline coated in rich, velvety kohl.   
  


Staring himself down in the mirror, he fails to see any sex appeal. His entire outfit— his v-neck long-sleeved shirt, his too-tight dress pants, his leather heeled boots— is all black, as are his nails. The only things that stand out are his brass earrings, specifically chosen to match his wedding band, and the massive, puffy, plum-colored coat on his back. It’s made of feathers, starting big and bold with a collar of dyed mockingjay feathers around his neck, fading into smaller and smaller feathers from various other birds, the coat ending just above his knees, all wispy and fuzzy. For a formal event, one might think he’d have been dressed in a suit. He expresses this, and Pez tells him that suits are for talk shows. Social events and balls are where the stylists get to play.

“Does everything fit alright?” They ask him.

“Pants are too tight,” Alex replies.

They laugh. “You lost five pounds on the Tour, they are _not_ too tight,” They tell him. “They’re only that clingy to accentuate your figure. There’s nothing wrong with them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, darling. You look radiant.”

Alexander turns around and carefully sets his chin on Pez’s shoulder, shutting his eyes. “I love you, but I am _so_ tired of this shit.”

“I know, dear. You’re emotional and exhausted. I take no offense to any of it,” They reply good-naturedly. “Of course, a _compliment_ would be appreciated, but I know that you’re going through it right now.”

Alex lets out a huff of laughter. “I love it. I love everything you make for me. I just miss when my clothes were _comfortable_ , is all.”

“Beauty is painful, and I pity you; there’s not a day out there where you’re anything less than stunning.”

“You flatter me too much.”

“I don’t do it nearly enough,” They kiss his cheek, pulling away. “Let’s go find that dashing fiancé of yours.”

“Alright! Heads _up_ , shoulders _back_ , smiles _on_ ,” Nora instructs, tone terse and bitter, as they walk up the steps of the President’s Mansion.  
She’s in an all-black and grey ensemble; Alexander has never seen her so devoid of color. “I’m talking to _you_ , Alexander.”

He rolls his eyes, but straightens up. Henry loops an arm around his waist, and presses a wet kiss to his cheek. Plum overcoat and leather pants, a thick black shirt with a high collar— they’ve taken a more sensual approach with him as well. It’s less shocking than Alex’s outfit, sure, but won’t stop the endless barrage of comments on either end.   
  


They step inside the front entrance, and the way that all eyes immediately shift to him and Henry is entirely overwhelming. They’re announced, and the socialites cheer. Richards uses the opportunity to give a speech “ _commending their efforts_ ” while they were in the Arena, and then the party seems to return to normal. It’s loud, and bright, and Alex is so out of his element that he feels like screaming. He looks to Nora, helpless, and she advises that they start with a meal; there’s something off about her tonight, like she’s trying to hide something upsetting from them, but he doesn’t dare pry. 

The food, good God, the _food_. There’s at least twenty different varieties of soup; the ones that stand out to Alex the most are a creamy pumpkin stew with slivered nuts and tiny black seeds, a frothy pink soup with raspberries, and a clear green broth that seems highly suspicious. Henry tries a bit of it, and tells him that it tastes like ‘ _springtime_ ’. There are whole roasted animals— cows, and pigs, and goats, and game hens stuffed with orange sauce. He sees various terrifying ocean creatures surrounding a table of shellfish. Endless rows of cheese, bread, fruits and vegetables. There’s one small table dedicated to cakes, one of which has been adorned with chocolate flowers. 

Alex doesn’t find himself eating much; he thinks that this lingering tired feeling is a side-effect of the medication that Pez had given him whilst he was getting ready. That, and a horrid case of cottonmouth. He presses a kiss to Henry’s neck as they watch the high-society Capitolites dance from their seats, worn out and already wanting to retire for the evening.

“I want water,” He murmurs, lips brushing against his skin. “Come with me?”

“Of course, love.”

Together, they make the journey across the banquet hall, somehow getting to the drink table without being distracted by a budding conversation. Alex finds what he assumes to be water in a crystalline glass, and lifts it up to his lips, but before he can take a sip, a curious-looking individual with electric blue hair speaks up.

“You might want to take that to the bathroom, darling.” They tell him, seemingly on the verge of a giggle.

Henry’s brows furrow. “Why would he need to do that?”

A woman with bubblegum pink curls answers the question. “It’s meant to make you spill your guts so that you can keep eating. Water’s on the opposite end of the table.”

“I see,” Alex replies, setting the glass down. Suddenly, he no longer feels thirsty. He grabs Henry’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Let’s dance.”

Now, dancing— that’s something that Alex can get behind. He’s no expert, but he’s good enough to find himself in good standing when situations such as these arise. Henry, on the other hand, is a creature of beauty and grace, moving him across the floor with minimal effort whilst the orchestra plays onstage. And yet, he has the audacity to complain.

“I loathe dancing in front of others like this,” He admits to Alex, spinning him around once before resuming the dance. “I much prefer it when we’re alone.”

“So do I,” Alex replies, a coquettish grin spreading across his face as Henry dips him. “But I think the only thing I like more than being alone with you is when you show off in a crowded room.”

Henry pulls him back up, a brow raised playfully. “I had no idea that my dancing abilities had such an effect on you.”

“It’s not so much your dancing capabilities as much as it’s your overall ability when it comes to just about everything,” He explains, smiling at the firm hands on his hips. “Competency is very, _very_ attractive.”

Henry hums, smirking. “Is it, now?”

“It is.”

Their kiss is brief, interrupted by a tap on Henry’s shoulder. When Alex looks over, he finds that the person who’s interrupted their moment is none other than Cassius Crane— the new Head Gamemaker. Nobody knows what’s happened to Mike Holleran; Nora’s made a point of staying silent on the subject matter.

“Hope you don’t mind if I step in for a moment,” Cassius says to Henry, his booming voice carrying an oddly apologetic tone. “But I’ve been hoping for a moment alone with Mister Claremont-Diaz.”

Henry looks to Alex, and Alex finds himself nodding; he doesn’t see any harm in a ten minute conversation with the new guy in charge. With any luck, Richards will have him killed before they have a chance to work together.

“Of course, he’s all yours.” Henry replies, smiling. “Be careful with him; he’s quite fragile.”

Alex glares at him, but Henry says nothing, walking off to find Nora and chat with her for a while. He turns his attention back to the towering man in front of him, and swallows, correcting his posture.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Crane.”

“Oh please, Cash works just fine,” He replies with a tight smile. “I just wanted to congratulate you on your win. A truly unique victory, and a truly unique Hunger Games.”

“Thank you,” Alex says, crossing his arms over his chest. “It took a lot out of me, but I’m still here.”

“I can see that much. I look forward to working with you,” Cash admits, blinding white teeth flashing in a brief grin. “Your first year as a mentor, and my first Quarter Quell. Things are sure to be interesting.”

“They really are,” He agrees, ignoring the way his heart drops. He wonders what he’ll have to endure; will all of the tributes be twelve years old? Will there be forty-eight instead of twenty-four? It’s physically painful to think about. “Can’t wait to see what you come up with. Love Holleran’s work, but he was getting a bit lazy towards the end there.”

Cash chuckles. “I’ve got a few ideas brewin’.”

Alex raises both brows. “Fill me in?”

“Oh come on now, you _know_ I can’t do that.” 

“What a shame.”

Cash pulls out his pocket watch, checking the time. Though it flickers in and out of his line of sight fairly quickly, Alexander can see a golden mockingjay etched onto the screen; it looks exactly like his pin. It confuses him, but he eases up when he realizes it must be one of the current Capitol fads. 

“I’ve got a meeting at midnight,” Cash explains.

Alex nods. “What time is it now?”

“Eleven forty-five.”

“Well, then I suggest you get a move on.” Alex suggests, laughing. He knows that he’s not exactly supposed to like talking to Cash, but he’s got this unique charisma about him; it’s _hard_ not to like him. 

“Of course. It’s been great meeting you, Mister Claremont-Diaz.” Cash replies, his handshake firm and quick. “Congratulations on the victory, and on the engagement. You seem to have stuck out quite lucky.”

“Thank you, I count my blessings everyday,” He chuckles. “Goodnight, Cash.”

“Goodnight, now.”

Eventually, party dies down, and Alex makes his way back to the train with Henry and the rest of the team. Raf’s shirt is unbuttoned, and his necktie has been tucked into his left back pocket. Nora’s makeup has been scrubbed off, her hair tied up, and she’s carrying her dagger pumps and walking into the sitting room with nothing but sheer tights protecting her feet. She takes the couch, and Raf takes the floor; they seem to have had quite the wild night.

Alex and Henry head to their room, taking turns in the bathroom, bathing and dressing in evening clothes. By the time Alexander has finished freshening up, Henry’s already reclining in bed, his bad leg propped up with a throw pillow, reading from the field journal that he received as a gift just over a week ago. 

As quiet as possible, he slips into bed, curling up beside Henry so as to not disturb him. Henry closes his book anyways, setting in on the bedside table. He scoots closer, draping a heavy arm over Alex’s torso and tucking his face into his chest. It’s so intimate, so oddly domestic; they don’t get very many moments like these. Alexander pushes his fingers into Henry’s hair, laughing pleasantly. 

“Your hair’s still wet.”

“‘M sleepy,” is Henry’s oh-so dignified response. He yawns, snuggling closer. “Sue me.”

Alex snorts. “You’re gonna get sick, baby.”

“And you’ll take care of me.”

“Of course I will.”

Henry kisses the hollow of his throat, his wet hair tickling the underside of Alex’s chin. 

“I love you.”

Alex kisses him a final time. “I love you, too.”

He reaches over Henry to turn the lamp off, closes his eyes, and drifts off, sleeping through the night for the first time in several weeks to the sound of Henry’s shallow breathing.

Unfortunately, there’s no time to rest once they get back to Twelve. They’ve got to get their marriage license taken care of, and they’ve got to prepare for the Harvest Festival; the only people who pay much attention to the latter are school-aged children, but Alex remembers how much it meant to him when he was little, so he’s more than willing to help with preparation and participate in all the festivities.

Their first task is handled quickly and efficiently at the Justice Building. Amy’s wife just so happened to be there today, and was more than willing to get everything set up for them; as it turns out, weddings happen so scarcely in Twelve that there’s a stash of pre-signed marriage licenses that Amy keeps on file so that she doesn’t lose them. After an hour of filling out an absolutely tedious amount of paperwork, their file’s put in the system, and they are an official married couple in the eyes of District Twelve. 

From there, they head home to change for the Harvest Festival; work and school uniforms are typically worn, but Alex sees no harm in wearing one of his nicer button-up and trousers combinations. He finds that he and Henry are practically matching, minus Henry’s soft yellow cardigan. 

“Well, look at us,” He snorts. “Didn’t take us long to settle into old stereotypes, did it?”

Henry looks between Alex and himself, face rapidly turning red when he realizes what they’ve done. “ _God_ , we’ve turned into Stanley and his wife.” He groans, burying his face in Alex’s shoulder.

Alex laughs out loud at this, rubbing Henry’s back. “You really _are_ taking after Mrs. Connor in this sweater.”

“Not another word out of you,” Henry scolds lovingly, tilting his head back up to kiss Alex on the lips. “Your nonsense tires me.”

“You love it.”

“I really do,” Henry relents. “What am I to do to help with all the festivities?”

“You can go down to the square— a lot of the older school children are moving tables down there. Using them as a catch all for food and the little arts and crafts pieces they’re trying to sell.”

“Right,” He makes it to the door, before turning around. “We’re buying them out, right?”

“Gotta fund the education system somehow,” Alex replies, smiling. “We’ll leave some stuff for the parents, of course. Just know that we’re taking most of it home or giving it away.”

With that, Henry’s gone, and Alexander heads off to Amy’s house; she’d said something about an entertainment night down at the Hob after all the festivities. Something about getting Oscar on guitar and June on vocals. 

He barged into her house unannounced; he’s never had a reason to knock on her door, nor has she on his. Amy isn’t in the living room, the kitchen, or her bedroom, so all logic points to her being in the study. He makes his way down there, and finds the door cracked open by a fraction of an inch. He peers inside, eyes focusing on the hazy television screen.

A broadcast is playing, regarding District Eight. Chaos has been brewing there for quite some time, that much was evident from the sheer amount of peacekeepers swarming the place during the Tour. Additional forces are being brought in to solve the issue— Capitol officers. People are screaming, and children are crying. Bricks are thrown, and buildings are burned. Things get out of control fast, and Alexander watches, mortified, as the peacekeepers gun down anyone and everyone within shooting range.

Someone approaches the door from inside the room, a peacekeeper, and he immediately rounds the corner, heart pounding in his chest. The door is shut with a sharp slam, and he lets out a silent sigh of relief. 

As the footage replays in his mind, Alex realizes that this the exact thing that President Richards would consider an uprising. His back slides down the wall, and he draws his knees up to his chest, pressing his face into his hands.

He is absolutely _fucked_.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Liam content for your health

On that first Sunday after the Harvest Festival, while Henry’s over at the family house in the Victor’s Village to help prepare for the big dinner of the month, Alex is leaving clues at his and Liam’s favorite hunting spot. It’s been too long since they’ve last talked, and things are starting to get real fucking serious. He feels like he’s constantly being watched out here, and knowing the Capitol, he’s probably being watched right now. All of his clues should lead Liam down to the lake— it’s the furthest they’ve ever dared to go, and it’s close enough to civilization that the more wild creatures won’t dare pursue them.

Alexander takes some time to reflect on his long walk down to the lake. The announcement, about District Eight— nobody outside of that study was meant to see it. That was for the eyes of Amy and the peacekeepers only. It was _heinous_ , and the fact that so much blood was shed over a handful of berries and teenage romance makes his stomach turn. He’s genuinely surprised that he hasn’t been killed for what he’s managed to start, yet. That’s when he realizes that the only likely reason that he’s alive right now is to mentor the poor children in the up-and-coming reaping. There are four months left until the next Games, and he and Henry are still a hot topic. To kill them now would be risky and impractical. Perhaps it will be a crash on the train ride back to Twelve from the Capitol; then the district will be down by two tributes and two Victors. How tragic— how completely fucked up. 

The fact that his mockingjay pin has become a trending fad amongst the Capitolites greatly unsettles him. Mockingjays are nothing more than a Capitol experiment gone wrong. During the Dark Days, jabberjays were a breed of exclusively male birds, manufactured mutts created by a top biologist to spy on enemies and rebels of the Capitol during the war. They could memorize and repeat conversations in eerily human voices; Alex remembers watching old videos on the birds in grade school. The districts eventually caught onto how their conversations were being transmitted, and they started feeding lies to the Capitol. The use of jabberjays was promptly ceased, and the birds were released into the wilderness to die. Instead of going extinct, the jabberjays had bred with female mockingbirds, and thus, the mockingjay was born. At one point, they were seen as a slap in the face, because the Capitol had been too stupid to foresee the possibility of the birds surviving. He wonders how Richards feels about the whole ordeal, about a former disgrace becoming an iconic trend— a _staple_ in modern fashion.

He continues his hike along the trail to the lake, and looks up as a flock of mockingjays soar overhead, singing and crying out amongst one another. Alex isn’t sure why, but the sight reminds him of a dream that he’d had last night. In the dream, he was at last year’s reaping, and similar to the real life scenario, there had been a child at the front of the line to get their blood taken, hyperventilating and crying. Already feeling put out, he schlepped to the front of the line to help the child calm down and assist them in getting the task over with. When he turned the child around to speak to them, Bay stood in their place, only the whites of his eyes showing, blood spewing from his mouth as flowers sprouted from the gaping, gory hole in his abdomen. He’d crumbled to the ground, and before Alex could grab ahold of him, he’d turned to dust, only his clothes remaining. He’d heard a strangled noise coming from inside Bay’s shirt, and upon shaking it out, found a dead canary there, painted black with soot from the coal mines. That had been enough to make him throw out the rest of those damned sleeping pills as soon as he woke up.   
  


Liam finally shows up when Alex is hunched over on the ground, trying to get a small fire started; he knows it’s dumb, but he hadn’t anticipated it being so cold outside. 

“Hey, Diaz,” Liam greets, his voice gruff and raspy. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Alex looks to him, and sees that he’s still dressed in his work clothes; it doesn’t sit right with him that he came to the woods straight from the mines. 

“You should be at home, _resting_.” He scolds.

“Well, you’re the one who left clues for me, so.”

“I know what I did.”

Liam scoffs, and scrubs a dirty hand over his face. “If you’re gonna act like _this_ , I can just go home, y’know.”

“Go ‘head. I’m not gonna stop you, pretty boy.”

“ _Oh!_ ” Liam gasps, faux-shocked. “Better not call me _that,_ it’d be a real shame if your _fiancé_ heard you say that.”

“What?” Alex asks, tone growing defensive. “You jealous of him or somethin’?”

“Your ego that big?”

“Maybe a little,” He admits, scraping two sticks together absentmindedly. “Sit down, we’ve got shit to go over.”

Liam snorts. “Like what?”

“Like the fact that you have a baby brother and I just got married on Wednesday.” He says sheepishly, watching as Liam’s brows furrow in shock.

“You _married_ him?” He exclaims, so loud that it makes nearby rabbits run for the bushes. “Alex, I don’t even _know_ the guy!”

“That’s your problem,” He reminds Liam. “I’d barely been home for no more than two weeks when you decided that I’d changed for the worst.

“Oh _c’mon_ , Alex. You know I didn’t mean that.”

“I’m not a mind-reader, Liam,” He retorts, hating the way his voice rises. “I don’t ever know what you mean.”

“It’s just,” Liam starts, flopping to the ground beside Alexander. “When you came home, it was obvious that something was wrong. I guess everyone could see that except for me. I didn’t— I didn’t understand that things weren’t gonna go back to normal anytime soon, you know?” He explains, and Alex nods, motioning for him to continue. “You didn’t wanna go to the Hob, you didn’t wanna go hunting— hell, you didn’t want any _visitors_. You didn’t wanna leave your bedroom. All you wanted to do was sleep and cry and be with _him_. I guess, in a way, I felt like he took you away from me. You were my best friend, and suddenly, I was completely out of your life. It hurt pretty bad. I know now that you were sick, that you _still are_ sick, but I had to grow up a lot to come to that realization.”

“I know you did, and I’m really proud of you,” Alex replies, taking a minute to process all of this information. When he came back from the Games, it felt like he’d just ended a war. It didn’t matter that he was still a child; mentally, he was decades ahead of the present, and simultaneously tied to those agonizing two weeks. Liam was still a child through and through— of _course_ he wouldn’t understand. Alex never should have expected him to. “I don’t belong to _any_ man, and you know that. If Henry had actually been trying to keep me away from you, I wouldn’t have stayed with him.”

“Tell me about him?” Liam asks. “Please?”

Alex hums. “I dunno. I feel like I’ve already made it weird by tellin’ you about how we got married.”

“I mean, _yeah_ , that was a little shocking,” Liam admits. “But if you’re married to the guy, I figure I oughta know some stuff about him.”

Alexander gushes about Henry for ages. He tells Liam everything about him; his smile, his passion for creating art, the flowers he’s painted on his prosthetic, the pile of books beside their bed— anything he can think of, he talks about. Liam listens, hanging on every word. It feels wonderful, to be able to vent about all the _good_ things for once, to have someone who’ll listen to his nonsense, no matter how stupid or mundane. 

“Well, _shit_.” Liam says after Alex has finally finished. “He’s your dream guy, isn’t he?”

Alex smiles softly. “Yeah, I guess he is. I just— I didn’t want the Capitol ruining a good thing. We decided we were gonna get married as soon as possible towards the end of the Tour. We felt like we deserved that much, y’know? That we deserved happiness before the ‘ _aw shit’_ factor kicked in.”

Liam raises a brow, curious and concerned. “What ‘ _aw shit_ ’ factor? Am I missin’ something?”

Alexander’s heart leaps into his throat, but he powers through, telling him about Richards’ visits, the man from Eleven, and the riots in District Eight. Liam has immediately sobered up, and is currently wearing the same tired expression that all the other miners wear. Alex knows he’s trying to process it all, but Liam bears a striking resemblance to Oscar right now. 

“So, there could be a nation-wide uprising?” Liam questions.

He swallows the lump in his throat. “I mean, I’m hoping not, but yes.”

“You gonna run off with Henry?” 

“I mean— I _want_ to, yeah. I’d rather not be assassinated for treason in the honeymoon phase of my marriage.”

Liam nods, pressing the heels of his wrists into his eyes. “I get it. You two have had it pretty rough. I’ll give y’all a heads up if things start gettin’ ugly around here. Keep your family safe while you lay low.”

“What’ll you do while I’m gone?” He asks, mind rushing through a million different scenarios.

“Stay and join the rebellion, or at least help the effort. It’s about damn time that the people stand up against the injustices we’re faced with.”

Alex sighs. “Try not to get yourself killed, alright?”

Liam chuckles. “I won’t.” His expression changes, a strange combination of sincerity and seriousness. “I love you, Diaz. I really do.”

“I know,” He replies. “I wish things could’ve been different between us.”

A heavy head on his shoulder. The stench of sweat and soot filling his nostrils. “So do I.”

Eventually, Alex makes his way back into town and runs into Henry. He’s a bit sore— the electric fence is actually working for once, and it just gave him the nastiest electric shock. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Henry chuckles, leaning in for a chaste peck. “Where’d you run off to earlier?”

“Spent some time in the woods,” He replies. “Needed to clear my head. Got to thinkin’ about some pretty important stuff.”

Henry chuckles. “Should I be worried?”

“I’m not sure, He admits. “The subject matter’s tricky.”

“Just come out with it. I’m sure it’ll be fine, love.”

He explains the whole ordeal with Liam in the woods, and how he’s agreed to watch over Alex’s family, should they need to run off together. He tells him about how the rebels are only getting louder, and how the chances of them getting off scott-free are slim to nonexistent. Henry’s face shows no emotion, and for a moment, he just stands there, playing everything back in his mind.

“If it _does_ get to that point,” Henry decides, sighing, closing his eyes, then opening them again. “Then yes, I’ll run away with you, if that’s what you believe will keep us safe. I still want to talk it over with Rafael, though. Give him a heads up in case we have to vanish overnight.”

“Sounds good—“ He begins to reply, cutting himself off when he hears strange noises and sees a crowd forming in the square. “You know what’s goin’ on down there, babe?”

Henry turns around, looking just as confused as Alexander feels. “No idea.”

“Should we go check it out—“

He hears a woman scream— Liam’s mother— and his heart stops. He grabs Henry by the wrist, and starts sprinting towards the square, pushing through the crowd to see what’s going on. When he finally has a good view, he sees Liam. He’s unconscious, tied to a wooden post and bleeding profusely, his body slumped to his knees. A Head Peacekeeper, new and unfamiliar, stands behind him, her arm raising the whip to strike Liam again.

“ _Stop!_ ” He shrieks, unable to stop himself as he surges forward, past the rest of the crowd, throwing himself in front of Liam. “ _Stop hitting him, stop—”_

The new peacekeeper ignores him, bringing her arm down, hitting Alex across his face. He doesn’t scream, but he makes a strangled, pained noise and slumps to the ground, clutching at his face, his ears ringing whenever he pulls back and finds blood on his hand. He can hear Henry shouting, but doesn’t know what he’s saying. Raf is yelling now, screaming so loud that anyone who isn’t completely deaf can hear him.

“The _fuck_ are you doin’?” Raf bellows, empty bottle of liquor in hand as he sprints up to the scene; Alex wonders if he’s just finished it, or if he’s brought it with him for the purpose of settling scores. 

“Dealing with a couple low-level miscreants who have clearly never been punished a day in their lives.” The peacekeeper replies, and Alex lowers his head as she rears her arm up to hit her again.

Rafael breaks the bottle over the back of the post, stands in front of Alex, and extends his weapon outward. “You might wanna think twice about roughin’ up one of last year’s Victors, sweetheart. He’s got a photoshoot coming up, and you just fucked up his face. Can’t imagine President Richards will be too happy with you for that.”

“It doesn’t _matter_ who he is,” She spits, sounding unamused and agitated. “He directly interfered with the punishment of a criminal.” She walks around Raf, gesturing to Liam. “The one behind him was caught sneaking back inside the district from the woods with a wild turkey. Punishment for that’s twenty-five lashes. Punishment for interfering with a peacekeeper’s duties is fifteen.” She brings her whip down on Alex, and he reaches up to grab at it, angry, screaming pain coursing through his arm and hand. Another strangled noise of pain. Rage flashes in the new head peacekeeper’s eyes.

“I think you’ve done _quite_ enough!” Zahra shouts, storming up to the new Head Peacekeeper. “If you want to risk being discharged from your position, go ahead and hit him again.” She warns, gesturing to Alex. “That one’s off limits. At least for now. The one behind him’s been whipped _thirty_ times— you just said the limit was twenty-five.” She reminds her, a no nonsense look in her eyes. “You don’t scare me like you scare the rest of these spineless recruits; I’m old enough to be your mother. I’ll report you in a heartbeat if you don’t get your shit together.”

The Head Peacekeeper, seething with rage, shoves her bloody whip at Zahra. She steps forward, face red and veins bulging, and addresses the crowd, shouting at the top of her lungs.

“Your new curfew,” She barks. “Is _sundown_. If any peacekeeper catches you out past curfew, that’s five lashes. If _I_ catch you, it’s _ten_. District Twelve has thrived in sin and anarchy for far too long— it’s about time you all realize who you are and who you all belong to.” She surveys the crowd, and her expression tightens tenfold. “You’re all dismissed, _move out!”_

People rush out of the square like ants fleeing from a disturbed colony. Raf helps Alex to his feet, placing a strong, supportive hand on his back.

“What’d I tell you about being a martyr, son?” He hisses, and Alex groans, a new wave of pain hitting him, burying his face in his shoulder. “Don’t faint on me, we gotta get you to Ellen’s house first.”

“ _Liam_ —“

“Blondie’s got ‘em. You’re holdin’ us up, sweetheart.”

“Sorry.”

“Dont apologize,” Raf breathes, letting Alex lean on him as they hobble back to the Victor’s Village. “Not for this.”

On the way there, they learn that nobody knows what’s happened to Flint, the old Head Peacekeeper. He seems to have vanished without a trace. They also learn that the new peacekeeper’s name is Circe Gaul. Alex swears that she looks familiar to him; Raf swears that he’s gone delusional from pain.

As soon as they get in the front door, Ellen and June get to work on healing Liam. They clean out his wounds, which is so painful that Liam wakes from his unconscious state wailing in pain. 

“For _fuck’s sake_ , give him something for his pain!” Alex exclaims, wincing as Henry cleans out the cut on his face, the welts and cuts on his hand and arm already cleaned and wrapped.

“We don’t have enough medicine to waste on him,” Ellen replies, tossing a bloody wash rag into the sink and grabbing a fresh one.

“Excuse _me?”_ He questions, wheeling around in complete shock. “He was just _beaten_ within an inch of his life— it is not a waste.”

“He knew what he was doin’,” She replies, no emotion seeping into her voice whatsoever. “He slipped up. We’re savin’ up for the next time the mines decide to blow up.”

Alex can’t control himself; he starts screaming at his mother. He’s yelling so loud and shaking so hard that he doesn’t really know what he’s saying, but he’s certainly shocked when June and Henry switch places, June grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and leading him out into the cold, slamming the door behind them and throwing on old bowl on the ground.

“If you’re gonna bitch, you’re gonna make yourself useful.” She tells him. “Fill that bowl with snow, and we’ll go back inside once you get a damn grip on yourself.”

She sits beside him on the step, and he gets to work. The snow stings and burns his hands, but he doesn’t care, shoving fistfuls into the bowl as he seethes and scowls. 

“Talk to me,” June instructs, tone much softer now.

“I should’ve died in the Games,” He blurts, done beating around the bush. “I should’ve just taken myself out and let Henry go home. Twelve’s gone to hell in a fuckin’ hand basket because of me.”

“That’s not true—“

“People associated with me are winding up dead, Bug. Twelve has never had so many peacekeepers in all its days. Folks are gonna start gettin’ beaten and hung left and right.”

“We knew this was gonna happen, Alex.” She tells him. “I don’t know who you think you’re supposed to be protecting, but we’ve all been watching you since you’ve been home. You’re a mess, hon. You’re not getting folks killed— I’ve been talking to Zahra. Eight and Eleven have been antsy since this time last year. Did your Games help? Not really, no. But this all,” She gestures around. “Isn’t solely your fault. Richards has been neglecting the districts for decades— people are tired of making life-changing sacrifices just to survive.”

He can feel icy water dripping down his arms, shocks of freezing pain bursting through his hands. “I think they’re gonna kill me.”

“They’ll have to wait a couple of years to do that,” She says, not bothering to beat around the bush. “The Capitol sees you and Henry as their ‘ _it_ ’ couple. Richards can’t just get rid of you. If he could, he sure as hell would’ve done it by now.”

He flings the water off his hands, and shoves more snow into the bowl. “You’ve changed.” He notes.

“I’ve grown,” She replies. “I had to. So did you.”

“That I did.”

They both fall silent for a beat, then June speaks up.

“I want to enlist to be a peacekeeper,” She confesses, putting her hands up in defense when Alex looks at her like she’s committed some sort of heinous crime. “Well, I _actually_ want to become a medic. Easiest way to do that’s by taking the test as a peacekeeper after boot camp.”

“ _No_ ,” He replies, the thought of June becoming just as evil and cruel as Circe giving him chest pains. “You can do just fine with Mama, right here at home.”

“I wasn’t _asking_ , I was letting you know before I go enlist,” She snipes. “I wanna go places, Alex. I don’t wanna sit here in Twelve for the rest of my goddamn life. Telling family after family that their main provider’s not gonna live because of the injuries they got down in the goddamn _mines_.” She rants. “I deserve a life of my own, and nobody’s gonna talk me out of it.”

He sighs shakily. “I just got back to you, and you’re gonna leave me?”

June remains silent, and he continues.

“You’re _really_ gonna leave me, Bug?”

“Alex, bud, you _know_ that’s not what I’m trying to do here.” She protests, setting her chin on his shoulder from behind. “They’ll keep me right here in Twelve. I’m not leavin’. Not until you’re alright with it. I would like to travel sometime, though. Maybe to Three or Four.”

He reaches back and grabs her, every breath shuddering. “I don’t want you leaving until things have settled down, okay? I don’t wanna see you out on a battlefield, or any shit like that.”

“Alright,” She relents, pecking the top of his head. “Alright. Let’s get back inside with this snow. It’ll help soothe his pain.”

Everyone takes turn watching over Liam. When it’s Alexander’s turn, he pulls Henry along with him. It just doesn’t feel appropriate, being in there without him. Liam wakes up a few times, crying, and Alex is right there, shushing him and singing him to sleep, wetting his feverish skin with a cool cloth.

By the time he finishes his song, Liam’s asleep, and Henry’s looking at him with heart-warming fondness. 

“That’s a lovely song,” Henry says, and Alex lets out a sigh of laughter. 

“It’s an old one that my mom used to sing to me,” He explains, laying his head on Henry’s shoulder. “It’s about this couple fleeing persecution by running off into the woods. They’re scared, but their love keeps them alive.”

“That’s a bit on the nose, now isn’t it?”

“It is,” Alex chuckles, physically exhausted and mentally drained. Henry loops an arm around his shoulder, and kisses the corner of his mouth.

“We’ll be alright, love.”

Alex swallows his uncertainty, and leans into Henry’s touch. “I certainly hope so.”

When Oscar brings over some of his pain meds for Liam, they take it as a sign to switch out so that he and Rafael can take over together. Alex tugs Henry upstairs, and they settle down together into bed, not minding the way the firm mattress groans and creaks. Henry fusses over his face, hand, and arm until he’s content with the amount of kisses he’s pressed to the sore, tender skin, and together, they retire for the evening, Alex’s head tucked snugly against Henry’s chest.

It’s only after a terrible nightmare— involving running into Persephone in the Games and her pinning him down to cut his face and arm open— does he come to a startling realization. He has seen Circe Gaul before. In District Two. She’d been standing on the platform with the rest of Persephone’s family.

Circe is the sister of a girl who died because of him.   
  


Dear God, have mercy on him.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @bi-disaster-fsotus


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